Cycles
by Felicity G. Silvers
Summary: Cycle: a turn, revolution, or full circle; a closed set of points where every point has been visited; a round of years marked by the repetition of events in the same order and in the same intervals. Except this time, things have broken down.
1. Rebirth

So here we go. Last story in the If and Only If series, thank goodness. It feels like it's been forever since I last could do this.

Update schedule: I know Bifurcation had a very generous update schedule-once every week just about. So did the early stories for that matter. That won't be the case here. This story is going to update when it updates, and while I'll try to hurry it along, I'm not going to force myself to either.

**Warnings this chapter:** knife play, blood, psuedo-incest, not nice things, loki being very loki about all this

Right. Let's go.

**Prologue**

There is a wing of the palace that is left near entirely unattended. The walls are covered in deep blues and purples, everything kept dim-even at the sun's height these halls stay so dark only cats can walk through without a light.

Visitors here are rare, despite the esteem in which Asgard holds its only resident. It is generally agreed that without his words and the clever gleam of dream-blue eyes, there is something... _wrong_ about the Queen's only child by blood.

(Something distinctly _Loki_.)

In empty hallways, shadows shift-swirl-stir, glimmer-glimpse of poison green eyes and a broken edged smile.

XXXXXX

Asgard is silent.

He does not remember Asgard being silent. It is as if it mourns (and perhaps it does because its golden ratio (_Thor_) is still away in another realm).

(They think him dead, don't they, think him lost and mad and he supposes, perhaps, he is.)

He arrives through ways that Heimdal does not know-and if Heimdal Looks he will not see Loki (Loki Trickster, Loki Most-Cunning, Loki Sly One)-slips silent through Asgard's golden halls (but not _quite_ the right ratio without Thor). He thinks of brown eyes flecked in honey (numbers-60, 35, 23, 233, 196, 103-spin up unbidden in his mind, numbers he does not quite know how to place, some dizzying mortal thing) and he smiles, because this, _this_, is how he must begin to keep those eyes and that soul _safe_.

(Loki Bringer of Gifts and _oh _what gift this is.)

XXXXXX

"Sir? Is everything alright?"

He blinks, edges of his vision shimmering, and focuses on his secretary. There is something (_blood, love, come, wake, let go_) whispering at the edges (_green green __**green **__eyes and a smile to mirror his own_) of everything, pressing down-through-_in_.

Ah, he thinks. This dream (endless dream after dream after _dream_ and he _hates_) has an end at last.

He smiles, peace-joy-_love_ making his face soft.

"Beyond," Baldr says before his (mortal) heart stutter stops again, this time for good.

XXXXXX

In Asgard, for the first time in centuries, a sleeping god wakes and Loki _smiles_.

He watches with half-lidded eyes as Baldr wakes, and relaxes his hand at Baldr's throat. He can still feel traces of the equations that kept Baldr sleeping (what _wonder_ that no one had woken the god before; they were so _simple_, barely magic at all) at his fingertips, in every sluggish movement of Baldr's pulse beneath under his palm. He strokes his thumb along the artery as Baldr's eyes open, one scarred and white, the other deep as dream and blue.

"Baldr," he purrs as his (once) love wakes and watches a flash of a thousand emotions cross his (once) lover's face.

He _remembers_ so very much.

(Remembers lies and ache and helplessness and _hates_.)

"Loki," Baldr says (and Loki _loves_, because there is _reverence_ on Baldr's tongue, joy-love-worship, _relief_). This is a gift

(_Bringer_)

and that Loki benefits from it... well, not all gifts must be entirely self-sacrificing.

"Hush now," Loki says, hand sliding down from neck to chest, pulling aside the shirt, silver blade in other hand catching the light and slipping through the cloth as if air. He feels warmth-light-_rebirth_ beneath his free hand, a delicate thin thing of tightly spun numbers not yet realized, nestled in the heart of a golden god, beloved by all.

"Hush," Loki says again, pressing a soft kiss to the red beading on pale flesh. "All will be well."

He hears Baldr sigh contentedly and feels hands twist in his hair

(familiar echo of hands twisting in his hair a hundred times before, a thousand, to the sound of Baldr's gasps and moans because he is not called Loki Silvertongue for naught)

and he smiles as he trails kisses along lines that bloom red in the wake of his knife.

"Thank you," Baldr gasps as Loki's fingers press in, feeling for white-light nestled in warmth that moves and throbs against his hand, silver blade following fingers and easing the way.

"Hush," Loki repeats, and presses another kiss to bloodstained flesh. Baldr's fingers curl deeper in his hair in response, back arching with something almost like ecstasy as Loki's fingers brush something pulsing-hot-_unborn_.

(_Rebirth renew destroy break burn)_

_(Ragnarok_)

Loki grins, beatific and feral at once, poison green eyes fever bright, and wraps his hand around what he seeks (what Baldr does not want) and listens as Baldr shudders and gasps with sweet release.


	2. This is

Oh my gods I didn't intend this to take so long. Sorry ;-;

Things to know:

0 and 1 are binary; I use the C++ standard of 0 being false and 1 being true (technically it's 'anything not 0 is considering true' but shhhhhhh)

Growth rates re pretty cool, and are formula that describe the general trend of growth in a population (or other thing that grows), and it is in fact a proof that exponential growth will overtake any other kind of growth.

Warnings: blood

* * *

_"So what's joy?" Tony asks._

_"Exponential," Loki says from the kitchen floor. Tony doesn't say anything about him tearing apart his laptop to get inside after only a declaration that it sounded 'uneven.'_

_"No," Tony says, thinking about it. Joy has an end; it starts and then it crests and it's done. Loki spares him a disdainful glance, then goes back to whatever it is he's doing. "It can't. Exponential growth just keeps going. Joy doesn't just get—"_

_"The limit," Loki bites out, bending over more to get a better look and Tony is only half-paying attention as he watches the skin draw tight over Loki's spine, "as t approaches infinity will be zero."_

_"Yeah," Tony says, "but that's just talking about exponential growth over-taking any other kind of growth."_

_"Exactly." Loki goes quiet; Tony can see him adjust something, barely more than a slight wiggle, then he's smiling and sitting back up, starting to reassemble everything again. He pauses, thinking. "What was the question?"_

_"What equation describes joy?" Tony repeats, as close to patient as he ever gets._

_"Ah. Yes." Loki stretches, then leaves the laptop only half-reassembled on the floor. Tony suspects one of them is going to step on it later, swearing, but he doesn't point that out. He's more interested in Loki slipping up to him, arms wrapping around him from behind and nose running along his neck._

_"Joy is," Loki says, then pauses another moment. "Joy is this." He squeezes Tony slightly. "It is cubic growth, modified according to various external data in order to determine if it terminates with the exact moment it would cross exponential growth—the inevitable build-up of ill events—or will, instead, turn into a convex growth pattern and gradually taper off. I would need a pen to appropriately write it out for you."_

_"It can wait," Tony says, twisting around on the stool to look at Loki. "I love when you talk dirty first thing in the morning."_

_Loki's eyebrow quirks up, but then he smiles, sly._

_"Do you now?" Loki asks, moving so he can stand between Tony's legs, crowding him and hands settling on the breakfast counter now at Tony's back._

_"That would be a one," Tony says, and Loki grins, sharp and vicious and pleased, and Tony thinks_

**_this is_**—

He wakes with his heart _pounding_, a rapid thud rattle, hands reaching for something (anything) and finding nothing.

The room is dark, empty. Just him and the elegant trappings (_mask_) of another hotel suite; he can hear thunder rumble, and the light spatter of rain against the window. Just him and a dream (_memory_) that won't stop repeating, that he can't get out of his head, that's left his heart aching and full to bursting and bereft all in the same heartbeat-pulse.

The same dream that he's had ever since he went through that damn portal to get rid of that missile, since he and Loki spoke.

(Not that they've stopped looking, oh no; SHIELD and Tony and Thor-all of them really, because Loki might be alive but there's more, there's something beyond the Chitauri and a (confirmed) fake attempt to take over the world, words grudgingly spat out by Barton of how all of _this _(before) was focused around something else, keeping something(one) safe. Because they need to find Loki because Loki has taken _so much_.)

Tony rubs his face and turns on the lamp, because he doubts he's going to be getting much more sleep and he might as well do _something_ productive. Maybe Bruce will have sent him something (because it's been two hours since he last checked, and clearly Bruce is going to be sending him new data at… three in the morning? Three in the morning).

"Did you sleep well?"

"_Jesus fucking Christ_," Tony says (and _shit_ his heart cannot take this sort of rapid whiplash, absolutely not, this is worse than the talk with Pepper that sent him looking for somewhere not even vaguely like all the places and spaces he's shared with her for years).

It's _Loki_ knelt at the foot of the bed, like he's about to crawl in next to Tony, and there's _recognition_ in his eyes—far more than last time, actual recognition, not stutter-shatter _blue_ in his eyes but _green_, green and green and _green_, copper(II) acetate triarsenite green—and Tony spends a few minutes trying to remember how to breathe.

(he's dreaming again, isn't he, he's going to wake up from another dream and be alone and it will be raining and he's going to need a drink or seven because _everyone is gone_)

There's recognition and bright-eyed mania, the mania of the sleepless and the damned and those who've gambled too much.

"I'm going crazy," Tony says firmly. "This is grief. I have absolutely lost it, and everything since Thor showed up has been one long fever dream and Pepper breaking up with me is really just her finally giving up on dragging me back out from whatever alcohol-induced delusions I've made up for myself. Actually, since before that, that's what's going on. I never recovered, and I have dreamed up everything since you died in the car accident, haven't I? Iron Man, the Chitauri, the Avengers and SHIELD. I have. And because I apparently get off on punishing myself, I decided to make you show back up you and that you should try and take over the world and you wouldn't remember me, because that's the sort of thing I would think of, I'm sure—"

Loki's brow furrows as he moves closer.

(not in reach, and Tony's hands _ache_ to touch, to feel, because so much of Loki is _kinetic_)

(_lust is kinetic, it's force, you need to use physics to describe it, like so _and he reaches for a pen to show, a long slither-slide against Tony that's all arousal and Tony thinks _how are you real_)

"—and you're covered in blood." Tony stops as he takes it in.

Loki _smiles _(_this is—_) and crawls closer.

He's covered in blood, staining the front of his clothes, splashed along one cheek and—and staining his _lips—_

_"_What the _hell_?" Tony asks, and hopes he's _actually_ dreaming, even if that has its own bundle of issues with it.

Loki freezes, staring at him with wide eyes. Almost child-like, like he doesn't _understand_ (and maybe he doesn't, Tony thinks, half-hysteric, maybe Loki is still as confused as he was before about certain things, about rules and social cues Tony has had all the time to learn and Loki knew even if he didn't understand, because they both coped the same way (drink and sex and pretending not to care), maybe that's part of being a _god_—)

"Why are you covered in blood? Are you hurt?"

Loki shrugs dismissively, leaning back on his heels; his face goes blank, eyes heavy-lidded.

(Tony doesn't want to touch, because if this is real, there are so many things he's going to need to know, so many things that are going to get so much more complicated; if this is a dream, then maybe…)

"I am…" Loki pauses, eyes flicking up to Tony's face. "I am whole." He tilts his head, and Tony sees how his hands twitch for a second before he folds them over his chest. "Do you…?"

(_do you remember do you still love do you care do you want to be here don't go please don't go I remember you do you remember me_)

"Yes," Tony says, answering even though he only knows his questions, not Loki's.

Loki sighs, his shoulders relax by degrees, and he smiles. Small, and soft, that touches his eyes.

(_this is_—)

"Stay," Tony says, impulsively. If it is a dream, maybe he can hang onto Loki for a little longer.

(If it is a dream, it's better than the other, the memories that circle and tear and make him ache when he wakes.)

"I cannot," Loki says. "But I have brought you something." He pauses, awkward, stilted. "For not—"

"Remembering," Tony finishes.

(He could be an asshole, could say _for throwing me out of a window_, but this already might not be real, and if it's not real who's going to know sometimes he lets that drop?)

Loki's head dips in acknowledgment.

"Here," Loki says, and he holds something out. Tony holds his hand out; Loki drops it into his palm

(both of them so careful not to touch)

and says, "Keep it safe."

Then he's gone.

XXXXXX

In the morning, Tony wakes up, certain he's going to need to do something else, because he's clearly having delusional dreams on top of everything else going on in his life.

There's blood staining the top of the bedspread, and on the bedside table is…

Is a seed.

He picks it up, studying it.

It's large for a seed, about three inches long, and covered in a spiral of scales; Tony wonders in the part of his brain that won't shut off (because the rest of him is trying to comprehend that that actually _happened_, that Loki was _here_, and what that _means_) if it's like one of those pine trees that only open when surrounded in fire, phoenix-like. There's blood on it, and when he holds it to the light, the scales shimmer.

It's warm in his hand.

_Keep it safe_.


	3. brin--

the person this story is for is having an horribly long exam today so I thought I should give her a surprise when she gets home~

Naturally everyone reaps the benefits all around. Huzzah!

* * *

_"What are we doing this time?"_

_"Ethiopian."_

_She snorts._

_"My turn," Clint reminds her; she watches how his hands move as he checks his equipment before putting it away. Clint's hands are rough, calloused, but she's only ever known them as gentle and she finds him fascinating to watch._

_"I know," she says. "Next time, I'm picking."_

_"You'll pick Ecuadorian," Clint says with a long suffering sigh, the way he always does when he's not picking. She stores it away for later; maybe she will pick Ecuadorian. She likes deep fried plantains, and she knows Clint loves ceviche._

_Not that either of them will mention that._

The sound of something clattering wakes her (why is she dreaming of the past?). Reflexively, she makes herself still, palming the knife she'd picked up earlier before she goes to investigate.

Loki doesn't notice her.

Not necessarily true; Loki does not _appear_ to notice her. Considering that he had stood up again after the Hulk treated him like a rag doll, Natasha is not going to take her chances on actually being able to take him down effectively with what limited choice in weapons she has. The knife simply feels reassuring.

The blood is new, and it doesn't look like it's his. Apparently he's been busy since she last saw him.

(Not that she knows how long that has been; her internal clock says two weeks, but there's no actual sun here either, so who knows if that's accurate.)

Loki isn't around for long. He spares her a glance, blinks as if just noticing her for the first time, and then dismisses her just as casually before leaving. Just vanishes into thin air.

Natasha suspects it might be one of the only ways out of this place.

Once he's gone, she goes to look at what he stopped to look through before leaving again.

There's not really much, admittedly. She can't get into one of the rooms—not for lack of trying—and Loki might not otherwise care to keep her restrained, but he also doesn't make that ever so fatal mistake of just leaving things out.

Except the book.

Natasha frowns at it, looking at where it's been left open.

She can't read it. She knows more languages than most people do, including how to read them, but this isn't one she's familiar with. It's old, the pages dry and ready to fall apart and tearing at the thread binding them to the spine, and it is not very big. She's looked it over, because it's important, and if necessary she could write down the symbols for someone else to look over, because_when_ she gets out she is going to need to. Every time Loki shows up, he looks through it before he leaves again.

She makes a frustrated noise and rubs the bridge of her nose.

"Did he say anything?"

Natasha looks over to Coulson.

(A surprise. One of the few pleasant surprises she's had since Loki decided that taking back the tesseract and staff meant also taking her with it, for reasons she doesn't know. The longer she's here, the more she's beginning to think it was because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and not for any actual purpose.)

(Provided he isn't something crafted by Loki; but Loki wouldn't have any way of knowing some of the things that this man knows. Natasha is willing to take her chances for now.)

"Not this time," she says.

"Shame," Coulson says, unflappable, steady. Calm. Natasha appreciates his calm and grounds herself with it; she's wanted to scream and punch something more than once since arriving. There's something about this place that grates on her nerves, unsettles her, and it's more than just the sunless sky outside that never changes to night.

A whisper, just at the edges of hearing, and she can't make out the words—

(_brin_—)

—not quite.

XXXXXX

Phil has been in more situations than he can count that would have tested the limits of anyone else. He did not get to be the second in command at SHIELD by allowing just anything to get under his skin. Every situation is controllable, even if the only control is the control he brings with him.

Not to mention he's a bit of an optimist.

That Loki has not killed him is already far more than he expected out of the situation. The setup had been entirely one where he'd tell Loki what he wanted, and Loki would kill him. Instead, he's ended up here—though he will admit he is not quite sure where here is, nor how to get away from here. There is food and water—and what smells like alcohol, but Phil has never been one to drink strange alien beverages that could potentially impair his judgment while in an unknown situation.

Natasha showing up what he would estimate was a few days later, also unharmed other than the blow to the back of the head, was unexpected but not unwelcome. She had filled him in on what had happened since Loki kidnapped him, and he explained the situation here as well as he could.

He would estimate it has been nearly three weeks, but time doesn't run here quite right, and his watch and phone both haven't functioned since arrival.

Loki doesn't pay them attention in his comings and goings; if the potential god is resting, then he's not doing it here-Natasha would have observed, if Phil had not himself. They are both still alive, and other than extracting the location of Stark Tower in Chicago from Phil, Loki hasn't actually seemed inclined to hurt them.

In truth, it seems as if Loki has entirely forgotten them. That sometimes Loki notices one of them and will blink in confusion only makes Phil more sure he's right.

"He was covered in blood," Natasha informs him. "Not his own."

The blood is worrying; something, he suspects, has changed.

The question is what.

"Do you know if anything would have happened to Stark?" Phil asks, because he needs to bring Natasha up to speed. He should have done this sooner, but considering he needed to be sure that it was her, and that it seemed they would have some more time before things radically changed…

Natasha cocks her head, then her eyes narrow.

Natasha always was very quick on the uptake. Phil likes that about her; it makes her easy to work with, and easier to debrief.

"He flew a nuclear missile through the portal before it was closed, but other than that, no. Not that I'm aware of. Why is this just now relevant?"

Phil smiles. It's the one Fury calls his schoolboy smile—honest, and chaste, like he's only forgotten and he's terribly sorry. He knows it won't matter at all to Natasha, that she will see right through it, but that isn't the point. It's reflex.

"It wasn't relevant before. How much do you know about Odin and Sons?"


	4. hope

Hi hello again~ Two things.

1. Thank you for reading and being so patient after that wait before I started regularly posting  
2. I've been managing to write fairly far ahead, so we'll tentatively say updates will be on Fridays, once a week.

anyway, here we go~ Frigga is lovely.

* * *

"Are you sure?"

Pepper smiles up at Steve.

"Absolutely."

It's not that this feels good; it doesn't. But it feels like _relief_. Even if she left, she hasn't stopped caring—she doesn't know if she ever could.

Steve frowns at her, and Pepper can see exactly how everyone falls in love with him. He's _sincere_, and Pepper hasn't had enough of that in her life. Really, there's not anyone else she could ask to do this, and she's grateful she lives the kind of life where she can ask a childhood hero returned from the dead for a favour.

"I'll do my best," Steve says. "I promise."

"That's more than enough, Steve. Thank you."

XXXXXX

"There's no way the tesseract is still on Earth," Bruce says as he takes his glasses off. "There's nothing that matches the readings we were getting before."

"If it is under concrete—"

"It still caused changes, even below concrete, just not enough for us to actually locate it. The tesseract isn't on Earth, and if it is then Loki is doing something to hide it that we don't have the ability to detect."

Thor frowns at the displays, as if that will make all the information that Bruce has sorted through change into what he wants it to be.

"Do you know if there's any other way we could find him?" Bruce asks.

Thor shifts, crossing his arms.

(Bruce still finds it strange to see him in jeans and t-shirt, even if Tony has sworn up and down Thor's used to it. Of course, Bruce still is trying to wrap his head around the idea of Thor being the same Thor that stood to inherit one of the largest weapons manufacturing companies in the world.)

"Hey, guys, how are we, I've got news—"

(_smash_? a half-question that quickly fades)

and Tony nearly skids into the room, hair sticking in every direction, clothes rumpled like he grabbed the first thing that he could find without paying attention.

Thor and Bruce both straighten, watching Tony carefully—it's not exactly much of a secret how hard he had taken Pepper leaving him, and while it's only given him more drive to help track down Loki, Bruce is hyper-aware of the sorts of mistakes a person can make when desperate.

(_good_?)

"Are you alright, Tony?" Bruce asks, because he and the Other Guy can at least both agree on this one.

"I'm whole, that's what counts; look, Loki showed up last night—"

"Where?" Thor demands just as Bruce says "What?"

"—and I am about 90% sure that there's something Not Good going on."

Bruce and Thor share a glance.

"What happened?" Thor asks before Bruce can.

"He showed up last night covered in blood, weren't you listening when I said things are Not Good?"

Another glance, Thor's increasing alarm showing on his face just as much as the Other Guy's discontent is growling in Bruce's head.

"Are you sure he was there?" Thor demands. "Loki can conjure illus—"

"I _saw_ him, okay? He was _there_. I thought you guys would appreciate knowing—"

"It is a fair question! Loki did not come to find you—"

"Yeah, I know, thanks for the reminder," Tony interrupts. "You guys have magic, right? Math. Overly complicated and advanced mathematics, that's how you described it before. Is there any way you can track blood?"

"You got some of his blood?" Bruce says in the sudden silence.

"I did say that he was covered in blood, didn't I? Am I the _only one_ who listens to me anymore?"

Bruce takes a deep breath and sternly informs the Other Guy he is not going to shake Tony.

"But not necessarily his," Thor says, but it's slow. There's thought in it, as if he is considering Tony's question.

Bruce looks at Tony. The irritation on Tony's face is already fading, lost to excitement and...

hope.

There's hope there.

Bruce swallows and looks away.

XXXXXX

Of all the places that he wishes to be, the Queen's sitting room is perhaps the last. Not for fear but...

Queen Frigga looks up at him as he enters, and Fandral sweeps a low bow.

"Lord Fandral," she says, her voice quiet. Fandral knows he is not the only one who thinks Asgard's queen worn thin, near gossamer by the absence of her sons. "Thank you for coming."

For all she is worn at the edges, she is still grace and elegance.

"The pleasure is mine," Fandral assures her as he straightens from his bow, wondering for what reason she has asked to see him. He is not Sif, who keeps track as well as she can of Thor's journey, nor is he any of the others, who by rank are more like to be approached by a queen. "How can I be of service, my Queen?"

Queen Frigga does not say anything for a few long minutes, staring at him. Through-past-_into_ him, and Fandral forces himself to keep a pleasant smile instead of shudder.

"I have a matter," the queen finally says, "that requires your attention. I hear that you have traveled widely these past years?"

"That is correct, your Majesty."

"And your discretion is unparalleled."

"I do not know about that, my—"

"How many know that you and Loki were sometimes bedmates?"

Fandral stops.

"Or that the Lady Sigyn only sneaks away with you so no one knows of her relationship with Sif?" Queen Frigga allows herself to smile. "I am only tired, Fandral, but not blind to my court and its workings. I would not be much of a queen elseways."

"Of course, your Majesty."

"I have a message I need you to take to Thor. And if you happen to dally along the way..."

Fandral does not allow himself to look confused, though he feels he is more lost than when he first set foot here. He only grins, as if there is nothing he would like better in the world than to drop everything to give Thor a message. As it would get him away from the queen and her knowing eyes, it is only half-faked.

Fandral does not like for people to know his secrets so easily.

"With pleasure, my queen. And what message would that be?"

Queen Frigga regards him; her eyes, clear and grey, look suddenly _old_ and _tired_ beyond measure, so much so that it makes Fandral feel weary just to look at her.

"Tell him that Baldr has been killed in his sleep, and that Heimdal has seen Loki on Midgard."

"Baldr is—" Fandral has heard nothing of Baldr being dead, not stir nor whisper, and he cannot help the shock that shows on his face. He tries to compose himself, though it feels the rug pulled from beneath his feet and he is yet falling.

Queen Frigga does not say anything else, only watches him.

"I will depart immediately, my queen," Fandral says once he has managed to at least get some level of control in his voice—if nowhere else.

Queen Frigga smiles at him.

"Thank you."

He does not stop until he is in the safety and privacy of his own rooms. Then, and only then, does he allow his cheerful mask to fall, to contemplate in full what he has been told, and the messages he needs to deliver. Baldr dead—it leaves an unsettled feeling in his stomach, as if the world has just been knocked off its axis. Nothing much, no, but there is something _wrong_ to it at such a base level he cannot dismiss it outright.

He shakes his head, pushing the feeling aside for now. He has never been quite so good at following the paths between things as Loki was—_is_—but he yet knows the ways to some of the hidden spaces that Loki shared with him that connect to Midgard.

(_And if you happen to dally along the way..._)

It would not hurt to look once more—after all, they are on his way.

XXXXXX

"Do you think," Frigga asks once Fandral is gone, "that he will make any difference?"

Heimdal does not comment on the the faint note of hope in her voice, the first in her voice in years.

"If we are lucky," he says, "he will."


	5. Eye for an Eye

Oh hey. Bet you thought I forgot about Clint didn't you? Well I didn't. Nope. And with that, I _believe_ we've seen all our major players that we will, minus one—and I'm sure we all remember Her.

(I did, however, nearly forgot to post today.)

(also, we've been a canon divergence forever now, so that hasn't changed with IM3. Or Thor 2.)

Things to remember: Stark Tower is in Chicago in this particular divergence, for reasons we've seen played out in the series earlier.

* * *

_It's Nat's turn to pick, and he wonders between counting how many times the one scientist is going to scratch his chin and feeling his brain melt out of his ears what she'll pick. Maybe Ecuadorian—he did mention it, and sometimes (but not every time), she'll pick what he mentions._

_He'll give her grief either way, because that's what he does (that's how they work), and she'll pretend irritation but smile the smile he loves best._

Clint starts awake at the sound of thunder outside, then lays in bed listening to the rain come down.

He feels, if he's honest, like he's been scrubbed raw. Not numb—numb means _not_ feeling at all.

(_Keep it _safe _and everything splitting, bifurcating endlessly into a thousand new paths._)

Clint feels (anger-hate-hurt-pain-lost-bleeding) too much, drained and exhausted and _raw_.

(_she's gone, Clint_)

But he keeps it together. He nods his head at meetings, writes out his reports, answers all the questions they have about Loki and what he knows. He interacts with a team of mostly strangers he sometimes thinks care more about _Loki_ than what Loki has _done_.

He still couldn't tell anyone why he told them that Loki planned it all to the last detail, all to keep something(one) safe, that Loki _wanted_them to _become_ the Avengers, but he knows.

(It's because Loki never killed more than he had to, because Loki hates (fears) death (Death), and the more they know, the more likely they can _find_ Loki—and if they find Loki...)

Because maybe he hasn't killed her (_Nat_), and Clint can get her back.

(He thinks about putting a knife knife to Stark's throat somewhere public, about demanding _give her back_, an eye (heart) for an eye (heart). He knows if he kills Stark what will happen, the fury that Loki will rain down, but then they'd be _even_, both destroyed from the inside and damn the rest.)

XXXXXX

Steve finds Clint in the kitchen.

"Good morning," he says with a smile. "Are you ready to go?"

"Give me five," Clint says.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks.

"Fine."

Steve is tempted to ask 'are you sure?' because Clint doesn't _look_ fine. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week, with the expression that suggests barely kept in check anger. Steve _knows_ that's pretty much Clint's default expression of late, but it doesn't mean Clint is actually okay.

"Really. Didn't sleep well."

Steve lets it go.

Five minutes later, they're on Chicago's streets, Clint setting the pace and direction and Steve falling into step as they jog.

(It might not be much, but Steve is still glad that he could convince Clint to join him on his morning run. It's not talking, but it's _something_, some way to let Clint know he's around to help.)

Clint starts off running fast, and even Steve feels a bit ragged at the edges with it. He blames the heat—Chicago's summer heat is in full swing, and he's grateful when Clint enters the park and they make their way along the bank of Lake Michigan where the breeze is a little cooler.

"You aren't even winded," Clint gasps when he stops. "Asshole."

Steve grins.

(It took a bit to get used to the fact that Clint's insults are just affection, his own rough way of letting a person in, but not too long. He'd been in the military, after all.)

"I can pretend if you'd like," Steve says.

"Nah." Clint straightens, stretching out. "Thanks for that. Like I said, I've been sleeping for shit."

They start to walk back; Steve knows eventually they'll settle back into a jog, but not yet.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Just the same old."

Steve doesn't know what 'the same old' is, because Clint hasn't ever told him, but he nods. He can guess anyway, from what Bruce has told him and what he saw before.

"Do you happen to have anything of Natasha's?"

Clint gives him a look—hard and angry and bitter.

"Thor asked," Steve explains. "He has an idea on how to find Natasha, and since you were closest to her, we thought—"

"—I'd be the one to ask," Clint finishes.

"Yes."

"I'll look," Clint says.

XXXXXX

Clint does look.

He doesn't have to look very hard. Natasha doesn't have many things, and she always keeps them hidden, but Clint knows where some of them are—even if he pretends otherwise. Just like she would (does) pretend not to know where he kept his handful of things.

According to Steve, Thor says hair would be ideal, and blood best of all, but he's not expecting blood and Clint wouldn't have any to give him anyway.

(And as he searches he wonders if they're only doing this because it means finding Loki, or if they're doing this because they want Natasha back. Maybe it's both, maybe he shouldn't be making this distinction, maybe they're one and the same the way they were when Loki slid in his head and everything blurred together into a mess of he and she and sunflowers and dancing, so much so he still doesn't know who is who anymore and he _hates _it.)

"Here you go," Clint says to Steve that afternoon, handing over a few red strands in a clear ziplock with an easy grateful (lie of a) smile.

(Because Thor is with Stark, and if he doesn't have to see Stark, he won't.)

"Thanks," Steve says with a smile.

XXXXXX

"You got it," Bruce says when Steve shows up, even though he's not certain.

"I did. Do you think it will work?"

"Wouldn't be the strangest thing that's happened yet." Bruce takes the bag, a bit relieved that Clint _did_ have something after all. "Thank you."

"Anything to help," Steve says.

Steve's timing is great—Thor is meant to be leaving soon, and he's alone when Bruce finds him.

It's not that Bruce doesn't want Tony to know about this, but... Well, he doesn't want Tony to know. It's a conflict of interests, and while he doesn't _think_ Tony would be half so selfish as to protest, he can't know for sure. Besides, this is his own brand of selfishness. Clint's done far too much for him over the years to miss an opportunity to pay him back.

(Clint emis/em back, but Clint without Natasha—even just in the background—is barely a Clint that Bruce knows.)

"Dr. Banner," Thor says as he enters.

"Bruce. I take it you're about to leave to find this... sorceress you mentioned? Angrboda?"

"I am."

"Can you have her look for Natasha as well?"

Bruce phrases it like a question, because being polite and unassuming is more likely to get him what he wants. Because if he demands it might let his control slip.

Thor studies him. He's imposing, taller than Bruce and in full regalia again, his hammer hanging from his belt. He looks every inch the god Bruce knew him as first; if Bruce didn't know Thor can't really hurt him, he might be a bit afraid.

"I will do so," Thor says at last.

"Thank you," Bruce says, relaxing while the Other Guy rumbles.

Pleased.


	6. Bindings

Man I'm so excited because finally stuff is happening. Okay, happening for me, supposedly it's been interesting for everyone else so far. I'm just saying we're at the bits I've been sitting and itching to do for ages now.

Things to know: Gleipnir is the chain that was crafted by the dwarves to bind Fenrir/Fenris. Skirnir was/is in Frey's service, and he was the one who bargained with the dwarves to get it made.

Boda (sorry, Angrboda) was one of Loki's lovers. He had a lot of those. Fenrir was one of their children, and is the father of the wolves that chase the moon and sun. He is destined to kill Odin at Ragnarok.

Thrym is the giant that Thor lost Mjolnir to in a bet, and demanded Freya as wife to return the hammer. Thor got all gussied up and Loki played his bridesmaid to get Mjolnir back.

Frey's sword does not have a name (though a few suppose it might be Laevateinn, Lopt's staff/wand forged at the gates of Hel (Lopt being another name for Loki)); what it does do is make the one who wields it impossible to defeat if they are wise. High criteria, eh?

Man I love myth.

Okay. Sorry. Enough about that, let's see what crazy shenanigans Loki's getting up to today.

(apologies for the long absence dears. Life is a busy busy thing.)

* * *

"My lord, you have a guest."

"I am not here," Frey says automatically.

"Well, Lord Frey, I daresay that it might be in my best interests if you are."

Frey sighs and twists so he can peer off the edge of hayloft at Byggvir. An afternoon away-was it so much to ask? Just he, his horses, and a too long, hot afternoon.

"Which is threatening this time?" He frowns. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Not sure I've not. Man claims to be Prince Lok-"

Frey jumps down from the hayloft before Byggvir can finish, is out of the stables mere moments after that. How many years since Loki vanished and Thor started his quest? He can scarce remember. It won't be Loki-it can't be, Frey's long since given him up for dead, horses driven into the ground searching old haunts and mused destinations to visit in the future-but if it _is_...

He makes himself stop and compose himself, to relax. To appear as he usually does-laughter and an easy stroll, infuriatingly difficult to upset, and the ease brought from years of knowing himself.

It is difficult.

(If it _is_ Loki, he is not sure if he'll hug him or beat him for leaving them all to worry. Leaving _him_ to worry.)

The stranger in the courtyard _claiming_ to be Loki hardly looks like him. Hair overlong, knife-sharp thin instead of simply lean.

(Sparkle of eyes green as the plains of Frey's sweet Vanaheim, but _wrong_, like a animal gone half-mad and feral.)

"You must be the guest I am meant to be here for," Frey drawls.

"Frey," Loki says with a smile (and how his face changes, eyes sparking and _there _is the young god that Frey knows, who laughs and drinks and sprawls languid across the floor insisting it is more comfortable than the bed because he can no longer stand), "still slipping off to steal naps in the horse hay, I see."

XXXXXX

There is something amiss.

She sorts through her books, examines the stars, catches the birds as they fly and examines their inside, casts runes to see where they fall.

Everything speaks skewed gibberish, speaks _break-destroy-burn-**safe**_, and she cannot find what has gone wrong, or where. It makes her uneasy.

When the knock comes at her door, she is not surprised. The twisted working of hawk's feathers and ash twined in Loki's chaotic limits has not found the prince, only someone _like_ the prince enough to whisper and singe; it is only a matter of time until this likeness' brother comes to her door once more.

"Thor," she says flatly.

The golden thunderbird of Asgard turns to look at her. Had it been another fifteen years until she saw him once more, it would have been fifteen too soon.

"Angrboda," Thor greets, bowing his head slightly.

"I have not seen your brother. You may go."

Thor's lips twitch.

"Be that as it may, I have something else I must ask you."

"You will not change our agreement now, Thrym's bride."

Thor's face hardens, and Angrboda smiles.

XXXXXX

(A sword which gives victory, always, to the _wise_.)

"It seems Byggvir _has _seen a ghost," Frey says, because Frey is _wise_, and he knows how to treat with people. That has not changed, then. Comforting, but not, because...

(Wisdom: a sum function of _experience_ and its application; difficult to measure, in constant flux. A messy variable, and given the choice between taking someone's wisdom and simply taking what ensures their victory, he will opt for the latter every time.)

"I had many things to see," Loki says. His smile feels... more true than most, and there is something _soothing_ in the touch of Frey's hand on his arm.

(Memory-there is _memory_ there, recorded sets that are neat and easy to quantify. Trust-worthy Frey, and he wonders if Frey thought he did not wish to be found or if he was lost, dead, as Adgard had.)

(Wonders if Asgard mourns Baldr, or if it yet knows, or knows what he has taken-stolen-_given_ (a gift, a gift, to keep (_recreate_) safe.))

He does not see Frey with his sword, but that is not unusual-Frey who is rarely prepared for battle, and rarer still has need to be.

(Strange is he does not _sense_ it and its strange equations that _twist_ chance and probability and skill around to meet the needs of its wielder. But he needs to _know_, for certain, because if it is not _here_, then where? He _needs_ it (for end-end-end-Frey is meant to _lose_ so that Sutr can-) to keep things _safe_.)

"What is it you look for now?"

Ah, Frey, who yet knows that he would not be here without reason.

"Your sword. You do still have it, do you not? I have seen less than pleasant working in my absence." Not a lie-he has. And he is one (not, _not_, he will keep things _safe_) of them. "It would be good to know you yet have it."

"I gave it to Skirnir long ago, Loki," Frey says, an odd look on his face.

Loki should have remembered that; perhaps not all is as well as he thought. Discomfiting-he remembers T (_T = Tony_) now, _surely_ that is all that was locked away?

"So you did. I only wondered if you had ever bothered to get it back. Then I know what I need. My thanks, Frey." He turns to leave, and Frey reaches out to grab his arm.

"Stay awhile."

Loki frowns.

(He needs to _hurry_, too many old functions groaning to life, set in motion by the seed he has stolen from its home (breast), and if he does not hurry then he cannot (bring this gift) keep things safe.)

"I cannot linger long, Frey."

"Ah, but you can linger," Frey says with a smile-warm and easy and lazy, a smile that unspools the tension in his head with the meditative rhythm of counting pairs. Thoughtless. Uncomplicated.

(_Safe_.)

Loki hesitates.

XXXXXX

Thor has never much liked Angrboda. He struggled to understand Loki's interest in her before, spent longer trying to grasp what Loki gained by interfering on her behalf after she betrayed Loki and Asgard both as casually as she might change cloaks.

(_"Even liars have their own wisdom, Thor, and where was the surprise? You cannot tame a wolf. Now help me change this bandage or take your brooding elsewhere. You are making the air damp."_)

Unfortunately, she may be the most skilled magic user Thor knows, greater perhaps than even Loki. Even if he went to another, there are few able to track someone to even the furthest tips of Yggdrasil, where magic stutters and fades and none of the rules he knows (that Loki taught him) hold true.

"You owe Loki a life debt," Thor says as calmly as he may.

"Amusing. You think he will die if I do not help you now? He has not managed it yet and it has been, what, seventeen years?" Angrboda's smile is a wicked thing.

"I suppose I was mistaken in thinking you could help," Thor says. He does not mind using cruelty against one such as her (minds it less since Loki's loss). "You could not find him before when I came to you. Perhaps your time here at the edges of the branches has begun to undo your own talent."

"You are being utterly transparent," she says amused as she leans against the door frame to her cottage.

"A shame that it seems the only one any good at finding people at the edges of things is the one whom I seek."

Her smile vanishes. Thor does not allow himself one.

"After all, how do you think I knew where to find you?"

"That bastard prince did _nothing_ of the sort," Angrboda sneers.

Thor shakes his head pityingly.

"Loki always was better than you with magic," Thor sighs. "A shame it is not you we need seek and he at my side I need to bribe."

"I will gut you and read where he is in your entrails," Angrboda spits, but she moves aside.

Thor allows himself an unkind smile as he follows her in.

XXXXXX

Loki has scarcely vanished before Frey sets off on his finest horse-a fine creature indeed, nearly so quick as Sleipnir.

Frey is not an idiot; for all the easy conversation Loki eventually settled into, there is something amiss in Asgard's second prince, something Frey does not recognize nor know. Violence that he sees echoed in the cast of runes lately, closer to Baldr's cruelty than Loki's jests. No matter how close they may once have been, Frey does not trust that Loki will not hunt Skirnir to the ends of Yggdrasil to inquire after the blade Loki once gave Frey as a gift.

Even riding ahead of Byggvir, he is too late.

Frey had expected something, but it is not what he finds; if he needed any convincing that something within Loki has twisted, a limit broken, he has it and more.

Loki has long since left but his bloody tracks are all across the burned remains of the home, one of his daggers left buried in Skirnir's jaw. The only corpses are Skirnir and the men Frey sent ahead-Frey thanks the Norns there are not more.

"M'lord, that's-"

"I know," Frey says, voice quiet, knelt down next to Skirnir. He closes his eyes for a moment. "I know."

It is how Fenrir is bound.

He opens his eyes again, frown deepening as he examines the cord Skirnir was bound with. Surely it was not so strong that Skirnir could not have broken free, even taking into account Loki's seidr. He reaches out, rubbing blood away, and recoils sharply as he recognizes the metal-slender as a silk, light as air, unbreakable.

"Loki, what have you done?" he whispers hoarsely, shaking. He tugs his cloak off and starts to wrap Skirnir in it-they have no time to sort and fumble for a way to remove Gleipnir, not now, but the chains need to be taken to Asgard and those who can undo the binding. Because if Gleipnir is here...

"Send word to Asgard-Fenrir has been freed."


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks as ever for your patience~

* * *

"Loki?"

Natasha and Coulson share a quick glance between each other.

There are footsteps and the sound of the door opening; Natasha and Coulson are both out of view by the time the owner of the voice steps in.

Coulson can feel his eyebrows rising as he gets a good look. Thin, not as tall as Thor or Loki, blond and fair-if not for how he moves on his feet, Coulson might think him helpless.

He starts to edge away-silent, careful-and his foot scuffs. He almost swears; he has been at this far too long to make such a rookie mistake.

Not a breath later there's a sword tip at his throat, the lax posture snapped to wire tension and grey eyes examining him coldly. One brow dips; unfortunately the rest of him doesn't loosen.

"A Midgardian?"

Neither of them say anything for another few minutes; Coulson uses the time to take in more details. Leather gloves-pommel also leather covered, his sword won't be slipping from his grip easily. Not human-he knows Loki, and likely Thor. Asgardian, then, despite the lack of complex armor the brothers tend to sport; the green shirt and brown are close cut, impractical to grab onto or snag.

Well damn.

He catches a flick of movement in his peripheral, but keeps his eyes trained on this man.

It doesn't make a difference. Years of training or not, there's another creak; he's starting to suspect the house is enchanted, and this Asgardian is considered friend while he and Natasha very much aren't for all they've been kept fed. He knows Natasha doesn't make noise when she moves, not unintentionally.

"Two?" the Asgardian says, neatly sidestepping so he can see both of them. "What is Loki doing?"

XXXXXX

"What the fuck is that thing?!"

Steve glances over at Clint, then back to the-the- wolf just ahead of them, still shaking off water from where it surged out of Lake Michigan a few minutes ago. Brilliant yellow eyes focus on them at Clint's shout, and Steve can feel the growl rumble the ground beneath his feet.

"You have your phone?" Steve says. Steve thinks how he barely come to the wolf's shoulder; Captain America slips into a better stance, keeping himself loose and easy.

"Calling Fury now."

XXXXXX

"And after all was said and done, you both have been left here? Forgotten?"

"That is correct."

Coulson watches as Fandral frowns, arms crossed over his chest.

"Lady Natasha-"

"Natasha."

"Natasha," Fandral corrects with a slight nod of his head, "you are sure he had no other reason to bring you here as well?"

Coulson and Natasha share a look.

"If he did, then I don't know it," Natasha says.

Fandral nods, tapping his foot against the ground.

"Where," he finally asks, "is this book you mentioned?"

XXXXXX

As it would turn out, fighting a giant wolf is quite a bit different than pinning a dog.

XXXXXX

"Norn's burn the realms to ash," Fandral swears as he flips through the book Coulson handed over, then, more succinctly and more vehemently, "Fuck."

The two Midgardians share a glance.

"He is attempting to bring Ragnarok," he says, closing the book and throwing it with more force than necessary onto the table. He should not show his emotions the way he is, but he is shaken and, beneath that, afraid. Ragnarok-has Loki lost his mind?

"The end of the world Ragnarok?" Coulson asks. He, at least, sounds calm. Fandral does not know if Coulson is simply calm by nature, or does not understand the full weight of what he has been told, but he is inclined to think the latter from the man's reaction when he first arrived.

"The end of all things," Fandral says, pausing where he paces. "And your realm in the center." He takes a breath, sorting through what needs to be done, and when. Thor yet needs to know of Baldr's death; he cannot by rights return to Asgard without completing Queen Frigga's task. Heimdal almost certainly knows as it is part of his duties. For now, he will need carry on as he was, but if he gathers a few things with him... He looks once more at the two Midgardians tangled by happenstance in Loki's doings.

"What does it mean for Earth to be the center?" Natasha asks.

"It is the origin, the center of the Yggdrasil's trunk. It is where everyone will go and... meet."

"Battle."

"Yes."

"Can he be stopped?" Coulson asks, picking the slender volume up.

Fandral knows his stories as well as most, perhaps slightly better-Loki always did have a near morbid fascination for the subject.

"It has not been done before," Fandral finally says. "Only delayed."

Coulson smiles.

XXXXXX

On the list of smart ideas he's had, Clint can definitely say throwing a rock to hit the giant wolf in the eye before it bites Steve in half isn't really high up there.

Actually, he might go ahead and drop it a few more ranks and set it right next to Budapest as the wolf focuses on him. He has never been quite so hyper-aware of how very fleshy he is and how very not-protective his jogging gear is. Maybe he should talk to Stark about that, he's a genius, could be a great ice-breaker-"yeah your dead boyfriend mind-controlled me, so I'm going to guilt you into making me protective jogging gear"-and he edges back very, very carefully.

Which doesn't really mean much when the wolf lunges for him.

Clint leaps and rolls to the side, hoping the thing obeys normal physics and can't change trajectory mid-leap. Based off the sound of dirt and claws scratching over the trail Clint was just on, he'd say that's a no, but he's not going to take the time to look back and check.

Something big and green and definitely mean goes by him; there's a roar and answering snarl, and then the ground shakes. Clint stumbles on his feet, trying to keep his balance, and twists around.

The Hulk. A mess of green skin and red fur already tangled and twisting around, one of the pititful park trees getting smashed in the process without either noticing.

Clint nearly wants to vomit with relief, but instead he makes himself get to Steve's side because he doesn't know how well the Hulk is going to fare against giant primeval wolf and he needs to get the both of them out of here.

XXXXXX

Natasha would not admit on pain of death how relieved she is to be leaving this place, with it's unchanging sky and faint whispers that rise and fall just out of her hearing.

(All the same, she is relieved-to leave here. The first thing she's going to do is find Clint and drag him wherever he wants to go.)

"Follow closely," Fandral tells them. "Do not open your eyes; you Midgardians have a knack for noticing things best left unseen. If we are lucky, this will be a matter of a few minutes."

Natasha does not depend on luck-it certainly hasn't been with her lately, not since this whole mess started.

"If we aren't?" she asks.

Fandral's smile is cold and sharp (a spy, she thinks, or someone used to hiding what he is, not so unlike herself).

"Then keep your eyes closed anyway."

The chain they form is loose, and Natasha brings up the rear, holding Coulson's hand loosely. Fandral waves a hand, the air tearing, and she catches a glimpse of millions of flecks of light, shivering ice light shot between them (tree-like)(bringer bringer and the light shivers and reaches-) before she closes her eyes to the vast darkness between the branches. Quietly, internally, she is unsettled.

She does not show it.

Nearly free.

A step, another.

A third and thro-

Pain snarls in her mind, crystalline and sharp and electric, shattered white that is all colours and none (bringerdeathdestroyrebirthcreatebring), hand convulsing tightly on nothing (oh what gift it is), before she lands on solid something again, rolling over to vomit, all of her bones splintering and breaking and reforming, recreating, reborn

(safe safe (end begin ragnarok) safe)

She opens her eyes to darkness so absolute it is as if she had never been born. For all the darkness, when she lifts her head up she can see. Not much, a robe-gown-cloak of stars, bleached white-

a skeleton.

Natasha does not often see skeletons for all that she kills, but she can recognize one. They aren't meant to move, not meant to seem as if smiling even if that expression is all they have.

"Hello, little Bringer," She says, and She smiles wider as She does not smile at all and in Natasha's head she hears bringer and end and her bloodsings and all of her bones ache.

(She thinks of Clint and she thinks anything.)


	8. Chapter 8

Hi hi hi. Oh look. Another update in the same 7 day period as the last, it's like a Christmas miracle or some shit. How about that!

Hello thanks and glad you handful who are still reading are enjoying~

* * *

"Ms. Potts."

There is a shadow across her desk. For a moment, Pepper is irritated at being interrupted, at her new secretary for not announcing the person, and mostly at same unannounced guest for being in her light. She composes her face, lips drawn tight, and looks up—then freezes.

One hand begins to slide carefully to the drawer and the gun in it.

"I do hope I am not interrupting anything of grave import," her guest says with a twitch of his lips.

"Not at all," Pepper says, offering her own smile—polite and kind and every ounce of sweetness she uses to hide her claws. "Should I call you Borson, or Odinson?"

"Loki," he says, lip twitch blooming to smile and eyes glittering, "is quite fine, Ms. Potts."

X

"What happened?" Coulson demands as soon as their feet touch solid ground once more, his relief at being on Earth again tempered by the fact it is only him.

"We were nearly undone," Fandral says, looking, if possible, more shaken than when he looked through Loki's book—his face is ashen, skin so pale it might be translucent, sweat at his temples.

"Where is Natasha?"

"With Her," Fandral says, as if Coulson knows what that means.

Coulson frowns at Fandral.

"Her?" he asks when it becomes clear Fandral is too stunned to clarify.

X

Thor frowns at the charm he was given to find Natasha; until a few moments ago, it was plain where he needed to go. Not somewhere he was familiar with, but she had not been moving nor so far from Midgard.

He turns, but the enspelled compass only continues to spin, lost and aimless as one held over magnetic north, near as if she is everywhere and nowhere at once.

As when Angrboda tried to locate Loki.

X

Coulson does not allow himself to swear, at least not in the presence of other people. Someone needs to keep calm.

This entire situation keeps getting bigger and worse with every moment, though, tempting him to break his own personal rules. That, Coulson supposes, is likely the point. Panic, get overly emotional, and a person tends to lose the trail of thought and start coming to rash conclusions.

(But Natasha—)

He cuts the thought off.

If Natasha has been taken by this Lady Death that Fandral speaks of, or worse, then there's very little he can do to change it, if he goes by Fandral's reaction to her appearance. He hopes that Natasha isn't dead, of course he does, but for now, he needs to focus back on what he's found out and setting at least some sort of plan in place.

He needs to start by getting to SHIELD and updating Fury with what's going on.

(How is he meant to face Clint?)

"Right. Follow me," he tells Fandral.

X

Bruce hesitates to enter the hospital room for a few minutes, watching through the doorway where Clint sits by the bed. Alone—or close to alone, the only one conscious—his face is drawn, dark circles under his eyes and corners of his mouth downturned as he thinks, chin resting on his clasped hands.

Eventually, Bruce goes in.

"How is he doing?"

Clint glances up at him, face already shifting to its more cheerful mask—no matter Bruce wishes it wouldn't.

"Still unconscious. Docs say he's healing at least."

Bruce looks at Steve—white skin turned gray and sickly. He's been cleaned up at least, so he's no longer covered in his own blood, internal organs internal once more.

"If he's healing, he'll survive," Bruce says.

"What about you and the other guy?"

Bruce looks back at Clint.

"I saw the footage. He drove that wolf off, but he took a beating too."

Bruce thinks about lying to Clint. He thinks about how when the Hulk was fighting the wolf, he wasn't even aware of anything else, that he couldn't even act as conscience or guide, the pure blackout that he hasn't experienced in... well, on the Hellicarrier, at most recent, but before that it had been years. And now, after, waking up to cuts and bitemarks a trail of pale scars on his skin.

"I don't know," Bruce finally says. The truth. "It's like he's not there."

(But it's not that, it's not that at all—Bruce remembers what it was for Hulk not to be there, and this, this is different. This is missing and wounded, buried so far and deep, soul torn and gouged and here he stands, unwhole, covered in scars of a fight he doesn't remember when he's never before awakened hurt.)

Clint scowls, looking back to where Steve is, before:

"I don't like this. All of this. There's more to it than just Loki trying to keep Stark safe—something has changed."

Bruce chuckles and takes his glasses off, but he doesn't point out he likes it even less.

"How is Stark?" Clint nearly spits the name, scowling leaving deep lines in his face. Forced, to an extent, but not entirely.

"Still locked in his lab. Jarvis says that's he is alive, but he's not saying anything else and the lockdown is still in effect. SHIELD's working on it, and trying to contact Pepper on the off-chance Tony didn't change anything after she left."

"Figures," Clint snorts. Then, "They haven't managed to get in touch with Pepper? She's in the same building."

"She hasn't answered her phone, no. Neither has her secretary for that matter." Bruce frowns as Clint's brow dips. "That's unusual."

"We need to get to Pepper."

X

There's noise outside of her office—muffled, but it sounds very nearly like a string of swears. It catches Loki's attention only briefly, without any sign of distressing him.

Pepper barely dares to breathe.

"That took longer than expected."

Pepper smiles again as his attention returns, not allowing herself to show any her relief. She suspects that he notices anyway.

"We have an agreement?" Loki asks. What laziness he had vanishes, green eyes sharp and focused, brilliant next to pale skin and streaks of drying blood on his face.

"Yes," Pepper says.

"Most excellent. A pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Potts." He smiles wild and open, wanting, casually tossing the sword he carries onto her desk with a clatter. In the space between one rattle and the next, Loki vanishes.

In her lap, her hand uncurls around her gun, knuckles still white, shakes traveling up her arm and to the rest of her. She presses a hand to her mouth, taking in deep breaths to keep from going into shock, eyes focused on the sword left on her desk.

The door smashes open and Pepper screams—short and brittle and high—before she manages to get it under control.

"Shit, I was right, I hate it when I'm—Pepper, you're alive, great, Bruce—"

"I can see that, Clint." Bruce hurries over to her, offering a hand. "Are you okay, Ms. Potts?"

"I've been better. He killed Thomas, didn't he? The secretary."

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, flash of guilt on his face.

"No one realized anything was weird at first—the cameras kept running, manipulated probably, and you've been known not to answer your phone," Clint adds, moving around the room—what he's looking for, Pepper doesn't know. "But his job is answering the phone."

"What happened?" Bruce asks gently, a hand resting on her arm.

Pepper glances at her desk, because there is a sword laying on it—

Except not. Instead, a charm bracelet, silver in colour, a single charm on it: a sword. Elegant, hideable, and she remembers what Loki said—don't mention it to anyone. Keep it safe.

Pepper takes a breath.

"He wanted to make a bargain." Clint's head whips around as Pepper speaks; Pepper looks at him levelly. "I said okay."

"What about?" Clint demands, stalking closer to the desk.

"I can't tell you."

"Fuck, what do you mean—"

"Clint," Bruce says, forceful. Clint settles back on his heels. "Not the point. Pepper, the lab is on total lockdown and Jarvis won't let anyone through. Do you still know the override codes?"

"If he hasn't changed them," Pepper says, making herself stand up on shakey legs. She makes herself look between the two of them, and realizes there's more than just not being able to contact her and a lab lockdown. Tony has locked down the lab for a thousand reasons—granted some of them haven't been good—but...

"What's happened?" she asks, mouth dry.


End file.
